To The Husband Whose Wife is Struggling With Anxiety

Note: This piece was published on Her View From Home last week. It's a more serious piece that stemmed from my experiences working with my husband to help get my anxiety under control.

My husband and I have had some tough conversations about how he can help during bouts of my anxiety. It hasn't been a comfortable experience, and it's not something we thought we'd face when we got married ten years ago. I think anxiety or other mental health issues can catch couples off guard. I don't think I ever exhibited symptoms of anxiety as a kid; rather, my anxiety has developed in my adult years in response to several life stressors crammed into a short period of time (infertility, a failed adoption, two big moves, new jobs, a career change, foster parenting, and adopting two kiddos with prior trauma...all within 5 years). I struggled quietly for at least two years (though, looking back, I feel like the anxiety developed two years prior to that) before I finally let my husband in on my struggles. I'm hoping this piece will be an encouragement to wives who may be struggling alone with their anxiety and a support for husbands who find themselves in uncharted waters.

Here's a teaser of the letter....

This is not something you signed up for when you married your wife. Likewise, anxiety is not something she signed up for.  Anxiety is not a choice for anyone. The choice you do have, though, is how to deal. You and your wife could allow anxiety to define or destroy your relationship, or you could write a new story for your marriage–one where anxiety is not the main character; one where the bond of two people becomes something worth fighting for even among the tumult of anxiety.

Click here to read the full letter.

Therapy debrief

For those of you who are first-time visitors to my blog, you should probably just exit this page and find another blog to read. But if you insist on reading or feel obligated because you know me, consider reading this post first. At any rate---on Wednesday I had my first therapy appointment....here's my debriefing of the whole experience:

• Arrived 15 minutes early as requested to fill out loads of paperwork. It seems excessive that I have to write my social security number at the top of all 10 pages of paperwork. I make a mental note to watch more closely for identity theft. Also, there is a question that asks, "Why do you wish to be seen?" They provided two lines for my response. TWO LINES. How am I supposed to A) boil my answer down to TWO LINES?!? and 2) Come up with something succinct and non-crazy in the 30 seconds I have allotted to that particular question?!? I consider asking for a blank sheet of paper to staple to this sheet, but the receptionist is not at her desk...I assume she's chain-smoking in the bathroom. 

'Twas the night before my first therapy appointment...

I had big plans of writing a funny, rhyming poem to model "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," but on my commute this morning I couldn't think of any words that rhymed with counseling or therapy, so I just gave up.

Anyway...I took a huge step two weeks ago and reached out to schedule an appointment with a therapist....for myself. My insurance sucks (THANKS FOR NOTHING, OBAMA!), but my employer has a decent program that provides six free sessions with a therapist to help employees handle any sort of stress. So....six free sessions, here I come because let me tell you, I have stress on top of stress. I am up to my ears in stress...it's evident in my filthy language and anxiety attacks and severe lack of motivation to do anything other than binge watch re-runs of Everybody Loves Raymond.

But if I'm being honest....I'm terrified of my first appointment tomorrow. I don't have a great track record of saying totally normal things when meeting people for the first time...especially when my husband isn't present to act as a buffer. When we first moved to Omaha, I tried joining a running group in Gretna. When I arrived in the parking lot fifteen minutes early to meet who I thought would be my new friends, I felt nauseous and shaky. I didn't think to bring my runner's mace....What if these people are serial killers? This is a terrible day to forget my mace. My dad would be so pissed....  I thought to myself.

One by one, spandex-clad people emerged from their cars and formed a small circle...I knew those were the runners since only runners feel compelled to wear spandex everywhere they go. I reluctantly pulled my nervous body from my vehicle and tip-toed over to the group. "Um--are you guys the running club?" I asked. The four spandex-clad folks looked my way, and cheerily affirmed that, yes, they were in fact the running club. They seemed to not notice my anxious, thirteen year-old girl demeanor. Soon we began our run; I loosened a bit as the the group naturally paired off by paces. My new running friends asked the typical small talk questions: What's your name? Where are you from? What do you do for a living? Do you have kids? I answered all of them politely and with clear, succinct answers providing them with no extra information out of fear that I'd say something stupid. Soon I found myself running with a man in his 40s who turned out to be college buddies with a former colleague of mine. Eventually he grew tired of asking questions. We ran in silence for about half a mile, and the awkwardness about killed me. I searched my brain for questions to ask him, but all I could think of was, "What did you have for lunch yesterday?" Before I could realize how stupid the question was, I asked it. I seriously asked a stranger what he had for lunch the day before....WHO THE HELL ASKS THAT QUESTION??? Needless to say, I was not included on the email list for future group runs despite my asking to be included in these emails.

I have so many stories like that one because I have apparently lost my social skills as I've aged (my husband just broke it to me that I never had social skills...what a jerk.). So I'm scared for tomorrow--mostly because this is a new person who I'll be meeting with on my own for my own weird issues. I mean, what should I say to start? I only have six sessions, so I have to get down to business right away with Collette...we ain't got time for small talk about what we had for lunch the day prior. But here's the thing: I could barely utter out a reason for wanting counseling when I called to schedule my appointment.

"What do you need to be seen for?" the receptionist inquired.

"Um..well, I don't know. I mean, I have two kids we adopted from foster care and all I want to do is cry and watch Everybody Loves Raymond," I replied (not really in that full context, but it's what I wanted to say).

I worry that Collette won't understand my quirks. That she'll either A) declare me too damn weird to help or B) dismiss me as a spineless, dramatic baby who is creating problems in her own mind. I worry that I'll start to cry the minute my butt hits the seat and the door shuts trapping Collette to drown in my tears. I worry that I'll start talking at a pace too rapid to comprehend, sharing funny stories in an attempt to make her laugh because this is what I do when I'm nervous---try to draw more attention to myself.

I wish I could be one of those normal, super strong people who lets tomorrow worry about tomorrow, who prays and then feels all better. I am not those people. I am a bag of nerves squished into a tiny body. If I have any hopes of sleeping tonight I will have to take a sleep-aid with at least one beer (CALM DOWN. This will happen after my kids go to bed, of course...). Nevertheless, I am proud of myself for working past my own pride to try and get some help in dealing with all my crazy. If you're of the praying persuasions, pray for Collette--she's in for a world of weird tomorrow afternoon.

Finding liberation in my anxiety

Note: This post originally appeared on Her View from Home. Click on it, and if you're feeling generous--share the link with your friends.

Night time is the worst. I often lay awake with my husband sleeping peacefully beside me, my brain replaying the terrible moments of the day. Every moment of compassion I missed with my kids and my husband replays like a CD tripping over the same measure in a song. I try reading, praying, sleeping, listening to music. Nothing shakes me out of this downward spiral. If I'm lucky, I'll just lie awake for three hours before I get up to take a sleep aid. Some nights the constant memory replay turns to a pathetic show of crying myself to sleep, but at least with these nights, I am allowed some peace in sleep. The worst nights find me crying myself to hyperventilation--so much that my arms and hands and face grow tingly from lack of oxygen. The latter doesn't happen often, but a few weeks ago my husband witnessed it for the first time in our nearly ten years of marriage...and it was humiliating.

I've struggled with anxiety for quite some time, but it reached a peak last spring and dipped off until a few weeks ago. My anxiety is usually situational and grips me when life just feels too much. It hits when I'm not busy working or doing stuff for my family….so nighttime. I think this is what fueled my constant need to fill my schedule for so many years.

Six or seven years ago a doctor told us that we'd never have biological children--confirming what we had already suspected two years prior. To avoid facing my grief, I plunged headlong into advancing my career--I graduated from college, started teaching full-time, began my Masters Degree, coached speech, quiz bowl, cross country, and helped with my school's musical. I presented at state and national level teaching conferences. Most of my energy was spent on my job, and whatever time I had left, I ran--logging usually 25-35 miles a week, and when I ran, I listened to podcasts and thought about my job. There was no time for me to feel anxiety.

I kept this habit up until one year ago. My husband and I had adjusted after making a big move from a tiny town in western Nebraska to Omaha a few years earlier. We were teaching at a large, urban school; I was adjuncting part-time at UNO, and we had just adopted our first child from foster care and welcomed a second child the same age as our first child. Our proverbial plates were full. A breaking point was inevitable.

It was sometime in December when I was up at one in the morning chipping away at the stacks of my students' research papers that I felt the choking, burning anxiety creep into my throat. It was something I felt many times in the last year but had managed to push down with more work and more miles. But I couldn't do it anymore. I rested my head on a stack of research papers and cried to the point of hyperventilation--my hands, arms, and face tingly from lack of oxygen. I knew something had to give. I couldn't sacrifice my husband or my kids or my health, so the obvious choice was my job--the very thing I used as a distraction for seven years. I had tried to quit my job a few years before, but I chickened out and took a last minute teaching job again. Over the next few days, I spent time praying about this difficult choice, and I ended up resigning from my teaching position mid-year and found my way to a part-time job.

With part-time work comes moments of stillness (no matter how much housework I do to avoid these moments) when the anxiety creeps in and tries to consume me. I’ve juggled immediate feelings of sadness, inferiority, and doubt about my decision to leave a job I was good at (teaching) and replace it with a job I’m still fumbling my way through (parenting). I’m learning, though, that while I prefer to keep these moments of anxiety to myself, I simply can’t ward off the anxiety on my own. That night in the bathroom a few weeks ago with my husband rubbing my back, holding my hand, helping me breathe, crying with me--I realized that I don't have to be alone in my anxiety. When I finally moved past the immediate feeling of humiliation, I was able to feel liberated. It’s difficult to let others in on these moments when we are nothing but a hot mess, but for the love---just do it. Find one person with whom you’d be okay exchanging hot mess moments. Be there for each other and allow yourself to feel liberated even in your weaknesses.